by Judy Greer
“Don’t shit where you eat.”
—MOMS EVERYWHERE
I remember it first coming out of my mom’s mouth when I left for college but have heard it since a lot, and it’s 100 percent right. It ruins everything. I have written this on a lot of Post-it notes, in addition to several times in this book already.
“Don’t pluck your eyebrows when you’re drunk.”
—BEST FRIEND JANET
She yelled this at me over the phone the morning after I got drunk in college and couldn’t find my eyebrows on my face. OK mornings after.
“Take arnica for a few weeks before getting any cosmetic procedures done.”
—ANONYMOUS
I actually have no memory of who told me this, but it works … I hear … not that I would know … I mean, you know, it’s just the word on the street … from people who have had stuff done … not me …
“If you’re in bed, and you think you might have to pee, just get up and pee. You won’t stop thinking about it until you do. Just get up and pee already.”
—ME, EVERY MORNING AND OFTEN IN THE MIDDLE OF THE NIGHT
Oh, the hours of sweet sleep I will never get back because I lay there just trying to convince myself I could wait until my alarm went off to go to the bathroom.
“If you’re a girl, pee after sex.”
—AWESOME NURSE PRACTITIONER FROM MY LOCAL PLANNED PARENTHOOD IN COLLEGE
This anecdote has been censored for the sake of my stepchildren and my dignity. But I would like to take this opportunity to thank that Planned Parenthood nurse. She was awesome and probably saved a lot of lives in Chicago. Hopefully, she still is!
“Pack half of what you think you need.”
—LAURA A. MOSES, FRIEND, EXPERT PACKER, AND CONSTANT TRAVELER
“You get more bees with honey.”
—LUCILLE SELIG, BUSINESS MANAGER
She is awesome, another parent to me here in this big city, and the reason I have good credit and a retirement account and my phone never got shut off.
“Wear your underwear over your tights; it will keep them from sagging.”
—MOM
This is not the best advice I’ve ever gotten—it’s not “follow your dreams” or “only compare you to you,” and if you’re planning on having a make-out session with a fellow waiter after work when you’re nineteen and you think that kissing might lead to his hand reaching up your skirt and feeling a pair of full-bottom panties over your tights, don’t do it. He will get totally weirded out, and there is no amount of explaining that will ever make him look at you the same again. Not that this ever happened to me, no way, I just have a really vivid imagination. But otherwise, my mom’s right, it really does keep your tights from sagging.
“The best time to plant an apple orchard is twenty years ago; the second best time is today.”
—DOUG CHALKE VIA SARAH CHALKE
She said this to me and Marla Sokoloff at one of our lunches when I was being a whiny baby about all the bad decisions I had made in the past. She’s right. For example, yes, it would have been great if I would have broken up with what’s-his-name three years ago, ideally moments after becoming his girlfriend, but I still did it, and that’s what counts today.
“Nice and easy does it.”
—FRANK SINATRA VIA JEFFREY TAMBOR
I took acting class when I got to L.A. with Jeffrey Tambor. In one class he played us that song by Frank Sinatra and told us to think of acting that way. Don’t stress, don’t push, don’t act hard, just do it nice and easy. I think it works for a lot more than acting.
“Crazy things happen to crazy people.”
—DAVID GARDNER, BEST MANAGER EVER
This is not necessarily advice, but in my mind it applies. You know that crazy person in your life? Friend, family member, in-law, whatever, who always has crazy things happen to him or her? And you’re always like, “What? Again? How can this much weird shit happen to this one person?” That’s why. Don’t waste your (my) time trying to figure it out.
“Always wash your face before bed.”
—EVERY FASHION MAGAZINE EVER AND JANET
I want to make this my number one piece of advice, but that would make me seem shallow. I’d also like to add that this is a good barometer for how drunk you were the night before, if you washed your face or not before bed, but that would make me seem like a lush.
“Don’t engage the creature.”
—DEAN JOHNSEN, HUSBAND
If someone is a wild card, best to just leave him or her be. I’ve told this to a lot of people regarding breakups and responding to/initiating e-mails/texts/calls.
“Never promise crazy a baby.”
—GEORGE BLUTH SR., REGARDING PROMISING KITTY SANCHEZ A BABY WHILE HIDING OUT IN MEXICO WITH HER
This isn’t advice that was given to me personally, but a favorite quote of mine from Arrested Development. But I’m sure it applies to someone somewhere.
“Walk around the house like a fucking champion.”
—PINTEREST
Correction: I think this should always be my number one piece of advice.
All-Time Lonely
I THINK 2012 WAS MY ALL-TIME LONELY. WHICH IS ironic because it started out as my all-time happy. I had just gotten married, I had a string of great jobs, and the people around me were healthy and doing well. Maybe that’s why. Maybe I was finally so happy with my life and the people in it that I didn’t want to leave it anymore, for the first time I wasn’t looking for anything different, I didn’t want a change, I liked what I had. Before I met my husband, I always jumped at the chance to work far away. I thought I would find what I was looking for somewhere else, some great discovery that would give my life meaning and change me for the better. It was my favorite thing to do. I wanted to do it more often. I would jump at the chance to leave town and reinvent myself for a month.
It’s different now. I have a harder time away. Now I’m married, I am in love. I have stepkids, and even though I know they don’t need me, I need them. I miss home. I miss my dog. I miss sleeping next to Dean Johnsen. It took me so long to find him, and I hate every day we’re not together making up for lost time. Now work really feels like work. My friends with small children always tell me to cherish the time alone, and do I know what they would give for even a few days alone somewhere? Yes, I do, because that’s what I would give to be home with my family. I know the grass is always greener, so I try to enjoy it, but it’s different now. These last few jobs have been particularly difficult. I knew that I was feeling pretty bad when I decided to get some fish while I was on a six-month job in New York. I was sick of being all alone in my little corporate rental apartment. I thought goldfish would be the perfect antidote. I could get two fat-bellied little fish that would hang out in a round bowl on my kitchen table and keep me company while I ate and worked on my lines. I would name one Michael Dorsey, after Dustin Hoffman’s character in Tootsie, and the other Dorothy Michaels, after the character Michael Dorsey played in Tootsie. (I’ve always had a fantasy of finally seeing them together, even if in fish form. You know if Tootsie was made now, it would totally be a Tyler Perry movie.) I went to the pet store and asked the man to help set me up with everything I would need. Well, the pet store man was not on board with my plan. It might have been my fault. I was trying not to cry, so I was brief with my words and staring up at the lights in the ceiling a lot (that works by the way, if you don’t want to cry). He basically told me he wouldn’t sell me two goldfish. He told me they were stinky and that I would have to change the water every single day. He asked me how large my apartment was because if it was small, Michael and Dorothy were sure to overwhelm the place with fish stink. I remembered years ago checking out a one-bedroom sublet on the Lower East Side that had a turtle in it, and that apartment did smell like turtle. I hated that the pet store man was right. He told me I should get a betta fish. One betta fish. Well, I didn’t want one betta fish. They’re mean and they kill their own if you put t
hem together; it’s a bloodbath, I’ve heard. He wanted to set me up with a whole betta fish system. They sold them in kits. It was a tank you plugged into the wall, and it had a motor and a filter and everything. This was not my plan. What happened to the days when you could throw a couple of goldfish in a bowl and feed them every day? Is that not a thing anymore? The fact that the betta fish have to be alone in their tanks, that I couldn’t get two, made me feel even lonelier. Now me and the fish would be on our own? I’ll admit that I was suffering from PMS and my mind was starting to spiral, but I couldn’t help but think, what if I was like a betta fish, and I can’t be in a tank with another fish because I will kill it? Is that why I get so many jobs out of town? Is the universe trying to tell me something? I left the pet store empty-handed and feeling worse.
A few days later I took the train to Boston from New York to spend the night with my friends Scott and Jojo, who had just moved there from L.A. They had nothing in their apartment yet except two beds and two cats. I am allergic to cats, but when Jojo told me that the baby cat, Larry, might sleep with me if I lured him into my bed with some sliced turkey meat, I got so excited I took a precautionary Benadryl. I was starved for something real and furry to cuddle with. That night I got all ready for bed and got my turkey plate ready. I gave him a few pieces in the kitchen and walked with the turkey into the bedroom. He didn’t follow me as I had hoped. I could sense that he was lurking in the hallway but not ready to come into the room yet. I pretended to be really engrossed in an infomercial about an airbrush makeup kit (backfired because now I need it, obviously) in an attempt to play hard to get with the cat. Unfortunately, I overdid it with the playing hard to get and fell asleep. When I woke up in the morning, the first thing I saw when I opened my eyes was the plate of turkey, untouched, on the pillow next to mine. This is my all-time lonely. Trying to lure a cat that I’m allergic to into snuggling with me by leaving a plate of deli turkey meat next to my head. At breakfast that morning Jojo told me their other cat, Steven, only likes fresh turkey slices, or he might have come in. But since the meat was a few days old, I was stuck with Larry. Great. So not only was I sleeping with deli meat, but it was several-days-old deli meat. Larry’s an asshole. I think I’m going to try for a plant next time, or possibly a Roomba.
How to Feed Your Stepchildren
THIS IS HOW I THINK I CAN BEST DESCRIBE WHAT IT’S like to be a new stepparent: Have you ever spent the weekend at a friend’s house who has kids? You know how you wake up in the morning and wander into the kitchen in your houseguest jammies and walk directly to the coffeepot and pour yourself a hot cup of coffee and then ask your host if there’s anything you can do to help? You don’t really mean it, because you don’t know what to do or where anything is, but you offer because it’s the polite thing to do. Your host says no, but thanks. You wander with your hot steamy cup of coffee to the bathroom, and take a long, hot shower, and get ready for your day.
Well, take that memory, but now the host is a tall, hot guy, and instead of saying, “No, but thanks,” he kisses you and says, “YES! Could you make a turkey sandwich for Lucas, a lunch for Emilee, she likes peanut butter and jelly, maybe start some scrambled eggs and bagels for breakfast, I’m going to hop in the shower real quick, oh, and if the exterminator calls, can you talk to him and see if he can come at noon on Monday, but if he can’t, ask him what days he’s free, and then we’ll figure it out. Oh, and did you decide what you wanted to do about that broken dresser? Do you want me to call the place and see if they will switch it out, or should we just try to fix it? What should we have for dinner tonight? I can make turkey burgers again, if that’s easy? Oh, wait, you’re not eating meat right now, shit, OK, well, let’s talk about it on the phone while I drive to work. I have to get in the shower, I love your ass big-time!!” And then you spill blazing-hot coffee all over the front of your new, kid-friendly jammies when you lean in for your express kiss. That’s what it’s like.
As an adult, I always had a hard time imagining my future with any real clarity. It was always vague, nothing concrete. There were assumptions—I assumed I would get married, I assumed I would have kids, a job, a house, friends, and be moderately healthy. Yet I didn’t know where, how many, what, or who. There was one specific, ongoing fantasy that involved Matt Damon, traveling the world, having long straight hair, and being able to speak French, but who doesn’t fantasize about Matt Damon? I never imagined I would marry someone with kids, but I never imagined I wouldn’t either. I just had no position on it either way. Lucky for me, Dean Johnsen’s kids are awesome and easy and seemed to like me well enough, plus, he’s nice (and hot), so I dove into the deep end, even though I’ve never been a strong swimmer.
I’m a perfectionist by nature, so naturally I wanted to be the perfect stepparent. The only problem was I had no clue what I was doing or what I was supposed to be doing. I couldn’t even find any books on the topic (turns out I didn’t look hard enough; there are thousands), but with reckless abandon I was ready for my new life! My therapist at the time warned me that it could be a real challenge, that I would have all the responsibility but without any of the authority. This is a catchphrase I find myself using a lot at parties when describing what my role is, but I’m not sure I believe it anymore. Did it mean that I can’t let them set something on fire, but then not discipline them if they try? I wasn’t sure what the challenges were that I could look forward to, but at the time I believed “what does not kill us makes us stronger,” and as long as his offspring didn’t literally kill me, I would manage. (I would like to add here that I no longer subscribe to that philosophy. I think it’s a lie, and I’ve thrown out all my inspirational artwork that states it.)
I was thrilled that his kids were older—nine (Lucas) and thirteen (Emilee)—so I wouldn’t have to change their diapers, make sure they didn’t cut my dog with scissors, or keep them from beating the shit out of each other. They were already too far along in school for me to be able to help with homework, so with that out of the way it would be easy, right? They had their own lives; I just needed to be around to feed and drive them. And, in the beginning, those were the biggest hurdles. I was a bad driver and an inexperienced cook. I didn’t know where anything was located where they lived, and neither did they. Early on, I volunteered to drive Lucas to his friend’s house, and we got in the car, I started it and said, “OK! So, where is Kyle’s house?” and Lucas shrugged and said, “I don’t know.” Well, duh, of course he didn’t know. He was nine. Nine-year-olds don’t know where stuff is. They don’t have addresses in the contacts of their phones; they don’t enter all their playdates in their iCal. Amateurs.
I remembered how afraid I was of middle school and high school students when I was in middle school and high school. Kids in general freak me out. I have a terrible sailor’s mouth (no one told me “crap” was a swear word!), I had no idea what they did in school all day, so I couldn’t ask them about it, and I’d never turned on a Disney movie or kid channel in my life. I can’t bear the TV shows on those kid networks, and I found myself getting really judgy about the acting and story lines. I wanted my “steps” to have better taste than that. I learned to stomach Good Luck Charlie because I had worked with the dad on that show, Eric Allan Kramer, and he was cool; SpongeBob SquarePants because it was so weird; and iCarly for I don’t know why, it was just always on and I started to get sucked in, that Miranda Cosgrove is really charismatic. I didn’t understand why they didn’t like what I liked, since the stuff I liked was so cool! Also, and no offense to kids in general, but for the most part they are terrible conversationalists. You ask them about their day, they say either fine, nothing, cool, or OK. Actually, if you ask them about anything, they say it is fine/nothing/cool/OK. And if I’m being really honest, I was scared of them. And I think they knew it; I think they could smell it on me. I hadn’t been around that many kids, I was inexperienced, and I was terrified they could sense it and use my weaknesses for evil as I would have at their age.
> I ordered SiriusXM for my car so I could start listening to parenting channels during my ninety-minute commute. Oprah had a great program that was really helpful. The psychologist lady during one show said that what you were supposed to do was just “be” around your kids. So I would ask my steps the regular questions, I would get the regular answers, and then I tried to just “be,” but I started to feel boring. I would find myself staring off into space a lot. Playing with my phone, telling them about my day, and realizing that they don’t care at all. I was really excited to get some professional insight on these talk shows, but I always seemed to arrive at my destination just as the host/guest would say, “And here is the ultimate thing you should do, Judy, to make them love you and be the greatest stepparent in the world …” OK, I am exaggerating, but it was sort of like that. I always missed the summary, or the answer to the call-in question that was my exact same question!! It was always, “We’ll be back after this break with the answer to that amazing question! Don’t go anywhere!” FUCK YOU, RADIO HOST! I AM IDLING IN A PARKING SPACE AND LATE FOR A MEETING, I NEED THE ANSWER NOW!!!! When are they going to invent DVR for radios? Yes, I know I could probably listen on my laptop, but when? I can’t have it playing while I cook, because I need total concentration in order not to ruin every meal completely, and I can’t play the shows while I’m cleaning, because I don’t want anyone to hear my tricks and learn my secret—that I have no idea what I’m doing and I’m scared and don’t want to mess it all up. I finally gave up and went back to listening to music or Doctor Radio, another commuter obsession of mine. I may not be getting parenting tips anymore, but I love hearing doctors break down diseases like takotsubo cardiomyopathy and pica.
In the beginning, the hands-down, 100 percent hardest thing about being a new stepmom was feeding my new stepchildren. I am kind of getting it down now, three years in, but it had been my greatest struggle, my greatest fear, and my greatest use of swear words. It is hard to feed kids who are not your own and who you have never spent any time with until now, when you suddenly spend all your time with them. The hardship is compounded when you’ve only ever fed yourself for your entire adult life, and barely even that. I don’t want to throw my kids under the bus, because they are so awesome, and they are trying hard to eat my food, but they were hard to feed. Or easy, depending on how you look at it. Easy, if I only fed them the beige food they loved best. Hard, if I wanted them to eat green food, or anything that was mixed together or from a foreign country. They didn’t like fruit. No veggies. No casseroles (a midwestern staple), no lasagna, we could swing a taco night, but nothing more foreign than that. And no leftovers, not even Halloween candy. I’m not kidding. If the Halloween candy wasn’t eaten days after Halloween, it would sit in the pantry, uneaten, until I would have to throw it out so I didn’t binge. It mystified me. But that is not my only food-related problem. My second-biggest problem was remembering to feed them. It would completely slip my mind because I was just used to myself. I need to eat when I am hungry, but I can also wait. I can grab some nuts and a banana to tide me over, or even substitute that for a meal if I get wrapped up in whatever else I’m doing. This is a no-no with kids. You have to feed them meals, the main ones. And they get hungry after school, before soccer/baseball/basketball practice, and when they get home from practice, they are starving and literally about to pass out in the kitchen while I scramble to put something together that is hot and not a turkey sandwich, which I already made them for lunch. It was all new to me, and it was hard. Food has taken on a new meaning for me now that I have steps. It is now a necessity. It is a major part of my thinking all day, every day, and on the weekends, planning for the week ahead. Food is not for enjoying anymore or to experiment with. It needs to be a fastball down the middle (a baseball reference I have picked up since spending countless hours at Little League). It is for fuel, for health, and mostly to stop them from banging the cabinet doors open and closed at 10:00 p.m. while I am concentrating on Pinterest and wine. If they’re still hungry at 10:00 p.m., I feel like a failure. I feel like the worst stepparent and American in the history of stepparents and Americans when I am throwing food in the garbage because I know they won’t eat it if it’s left over. Also, when you’re used to cooking for only yourself and the occasional dinner for two (and I mean occasional), it seems impossible to cook a meal for four people. I don’t even have a clue about how much food to buy. I don’t know if I’m supposed to double recipes or if they are already written with four hungry people in mind. What about supermarkets? I never pushed a cart in them; I only ever needed a basket. I was basket-at-market girl, not cart-pusher girl. I had no idea where anything was in the market. It would take me hours to shop—I still take forever, but I am starting to shave seconds off my time. In the beginning I would lose myself in the store, looking for one special thing in the recipe, not realizing that (a) I could make it without and (b) no one was going to want to eat what I made anyway. Then I started the phase where I let Dean Johnsen cook for the kids, and I made a healthy meal for the two of us. That worked for a while, but it didn’t really solve the meta-problem of getting the kids to eat healthier and expand their palates to include more exotic foods. It made me laugh when my friends would say, “Just put some avocado and sprouts on a piece of toast.” Uh, yeah, that’s not happening. It’s a process, and it’s getting better, but there’s a ways to go yet. I’m getting better at cooking meals for all of us, at not taking it personally when they hate something or don’t want to eat it, at not wanting to cry when Lucas puts a bite of food the size of his pinkie nail on his fork and examines it for seventeen seconds before putting it in his mouth. Lucas, if you read this, I promise I am not trying to poison you. (Speaking of poison, I do think it’s a small miracle the four of us haven’t had food poisoning from any of my meals yet. Knocking on wood right now.)